


Come On With The Rain

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, a shower big enough for two Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come On With The Rain

This is what they’d been reduced to. The FBI on their tails and no new credit cards until they get around to either the Denver or Little Rock P.O. Box, which had meant for the past week they’d been squatting in a succession of empty homes. They’d tried to target ones for sale or obviously abandoned, so it’d ended up with a lot of sleeping on bare floors and no heat, which sucks quite a lot in mid-November.

But they lucked out tonight, found a place in this suburb a few towns over from the latest routine poltergeist removal. It’s a recent foreclosure, some sort of mini-mansion, larger than the whole motel of the kind they usually frequent. It still has furniture and lights and running water— _hot_ running water— which means Sam heads straight for the shower the minute he picks the locks and disables the alarm, while Dean’s stuck with scouting the perimeter and laying down salt.

That’s what throwing scissors every time will get you.

The place is so huge it takes Sam a couple thousand square feet of house just to find a bedroom, but finally he gets upstairs and down a hall and throws opens a door to find that it’s a suite with a massive four-poster bed piled with pillows and a bathroom just beyond.

He tosses his duffle on the floor beside the bed and toes out of his shoes, then sheds clothes as quickly as he can as he crosses the room. He’s confounded for a second by the—unbelievable — twelve switches on the wall just inside the door, but finally at random flips the one that turns on the lights.

The shower is mind-blowing: an all-glass stall the size of a small barn, with not two, but three showerheads and controls that look like they’d be more at home in the International Space Station. Sam gingerly opens the door and fiddles with one set of levers until water starts flowing, then, while he waits for it to heat up, turns to investigate the rest of those switches.

He’s distracted long enough—c’mon, a towel warmer _and_ a heated floor _and_ an LCD television screen _inside_ the mirror? — that the room has started to fill with steam, billows wafting towards him from the shower spray, beckoning him in.

Sam reaches a hand into the flow to test the temperature—just this side of scalding, just the way he likes it— then steps under the water. He braces his hands against the wall and drops his head, curling into a deep arch that pops the notches in his spine and lets the hot water pound against the sore muscles all down his back in a delicious burn.

He draws in a lungful of humid air and holds it, savors it like an ex-smoker taking a drag off a forgotten cigarette. Water sluices in thick rivers down his legs and spins down the drain and he smiles. It’s been a good day: finishing an easy hunt and finding a safe place to settle. Seems like they haven’t gotten too many of these lately.

Sam loses track of time, long minutes go by, lulled by the smooth shush of water in his ears. When he finally looks up, Dean’s there— still fully-dressed, one shoulder propped against the doorframe, legs crossed casually at the ankle— watching him through the haze of steam and glass. Something bright swells up under Sam’s ribs and he grins, kicking out to knock the shower door ajar with the ball of his foot. “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

Dean starts to strip, his answering grin morphing into a knowing smirk when he notices Sam’s staring. Dean slows down, both hands in the hem of his tee, drawing it up by inches, gradually revealing the soft skin of his belly, his navel, the hard plane of his chest. He stretches up and up with his arms twisted and caught in the soft fabric above his head, arching and holding the pose just long enough to make Sam a little bit crazy, to make Sam reach down to cup one hand between his legs, cock and balls heavy and dripping and sensitive.

“Uh uh,” Dean scolds. “That’s my job.” Getting down to business, he swiftly kicks off his boots and peels out of his jeans, while Sam adjusts the shower valve, lowering the heat down to Dean-temperature.

Naked— _finally_ — Dean steps into the stall and Sam moves aside to share the spray with him. He leans in for a kiss, but Dean just reaches out and tweaks Sam’s nipple, sending a tangled ripple of pain and lust shooting down through his gut.

“Dude!” He scowls because he’s expected to, rubbing at his chest. Dean laughs and ducks his head under the water for a second, then rubs his hands over his face to clear it and looks all around like he’s inspecting the place.

“Impressive. Roomy. I like it,” Dean says, nodding in approval, and then glances up. “Hell, yeah. Check this out, Sam. It’s a handheld!”

“What?” Sam notices that the shower nozzle is attached to a slender tube, realizes that you can take it off of the wall. He watches as Dean reaches up and fiddles with the hardware, releasing the showerhead from its holder then holding it up in triumph, his face lit up like a lottery winner. Sam’s mouth twitches against his will.

It’s less amusing when Dean brings the showerhead down and aims it inches away from Sam’s sore nipple. Up close like this, the jets of water are a mass of tiny nettles, dense and stinging, and Sam yelps involuntarily, squirming away, turning so that the spray hits across his back instead. “You’re a bastard.”

“Shut up and hold still. Hands back on the wall.” Dean takes a steadying grip on Sam’s hip and starts moving the showerhead in swirling patterns, back and forth, back and forth, warm water kneading into Sam’s shoulders, beating powerfully against Sam’s nape before moving down to massage his spine. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything quite like it. It’s soothing and arousing at the same time, every patch of his skin tingling as the spray moves away, every muscle loosing bit by bit. He can’t concentrate, can’t predict where the spray will hit him next, can’t breathe, his lungs saturated with dense steam, heavy and sodden, head foggy, using the wall to hold himself upright.

Dean takes his time, his free hand stroking up and down Sam’s flank, lightly over his stomach and chest, as the water spills over his back and thighs and ass. Sam’s dick is full and bobbing up toward his belly, and he desperately needs some pressure, some relief, but Dean and the water are touching him everywhere but there. Sam wants to take matters into his own hands, but it’s as if he can’t; he’s fallen into some waterlogged, trance-like state. Besides, he knows Dean will get them there in his own time, so he dents his lip with his teeth and holds on.

His resolve only lasts a moment, though, as he feels Dean’s mouth against his shoulderblade. Dean’s tongue laps out, sipping the water tumbling down Sam’s back. He’s drinking from Sam’s _skin_ , and it’s ridiculously, unbearably hot.

Sam rolls his shoulders and makes some stupid noise and, can’t help it, tries to push back into Dean’s space, get dick to ass, but Dean holds him firmly in place. “Stay there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean reaching one-handed into a nook set into the tile wall, unscrewing the cap on a jar, and scooping out a handful of something creamy and blue-green, lotion or conditioner, doesn’t really matter.

“Spread your legs wider for me, Sammy.” He can barely hear Dean’s low command over the roar of the water, but he does as he’s told, broadening his stance and arching back with anticipation. He gasps when Dean’s fingers, coated thick and cold, glide down the crease of his ass and touch light against his hole.

Dean circles one finger slowly around Sam’s opening while drawing matching circles of spray onto Sam’s back. Sam closes his eyes, floating and trembling at the same time, languid, wanting. He feels Dean bring the nozzle right to the base of his spine, and the water gushes between Sam’s cheeks as Dean reaches for another handful of lotion. Then his fingers are back again, pressing, seeking. Normally, Dean has to work him open slowly, take his time, but right now Sam’s so relaxed, Dean just slots two fingers right up into him with hardly any resistance.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, at the same time Dean groans, “Oh fuck.” Dean’s doesn’t move for a second, leaning his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, until Sam pushes back, demanding. Dean gives it to him, rubs all up inside him, deeper, quicker, then it’s three fingers, spreading wide, water pouring down Sam’s back in a flood, and Sam’s out of his mind. All he can think of is Dean’s cock splitting him open and fucking him into the wall.

Instead Dean’s fingers are gone, his hips pushing forward to shove his cock between Sam’s thighs, flush against his hole, pressure there, a promise. Dean reaches around to grip Sam’s cock in a tight circle, pumping it in short, sharp strokes, and, at the same time, he brings the showerhead around, sudden pressure right up under Sam’s balls. The water pulses, insistent and intense, and that right there is the end for Sam. His shout echoes off of the tiles and he comes, ribbons of white painting the wall in front of him, Dean draped over his back, biting and licking and murmuring encouragement into his ear.

When he’s finally spent, Sam sinks to the shower floor, feeling so loose and boneless he might melt and get washed down the drain.

But he’s not done yet.

Eyes closed, still on his knees, he shifts around so he’s facing Dean. He parts his lips, still panting slightly.They can't usually do this, most showers too cramped for comfort, but tonight he can take care of Dean right. Sam knows what he must look like kneeling there—docile, ready, eager to be used—and lets the satisfaction of it slide through him. He hears Dean fumbling, hooking the nozzle back to the wall so that the spray now rains down between them. Sam tilts his head back and lets water pool in his open mouth, every few seconds pushing it out with his tongue so that it washes down over his chin. He hears Dean swear, feels him shuffle forward, moving closer until his feet are bracketing Sam’s thighs. Inside, Sam quivers in anticipation, but for Dean he holds himself still, chin up, mouth open.

Dean puts one hand to Sam’s sodden hair, carding it back off of his forehead until it hangs long and dripping down Sam’s neck. With the other hand Dean takes hold of his cock, guiding it so that just the tip rests, a silky weight, against Sam’s bottom lip. Sam wants to lick him, to suck him in, to taste the familiar earthy-bitterness of Dean instead of clear, tepid water, but he waits. He’s waiting for Dean.

Dean doesn’t hesitate any longer. He starts to move, slow at first, pressing his cock in and drawing back, shallow then deeper, hot and luscious on Sam’s tongue. Sam arches into Dean’s thrusts with subtle shifts, lips sealed tight, tongue rubbing and encouraging, but never disturbing the perfect rhythm Dean’s setting, building faster and faster.

Dean’s grip on his hair tightens and Sam looks up, blinking through the water rushing over his face. Dean’s staring down at him, eyes half-lidded, lashes spiky and dark, and pants, "Sam. Sam. God, so good."

In response, Sam just angles his head up that last little bit, opens as much as he possibly can. It feels like he’s drowning; he can’t breathe with Dean filling him up, slamming into the back of his throat and the water flooding his nose. He's choking, his heart hammering. Dean’s eyes are fixed on Sam’s mouth, Sam’s on Dean’s. Sam lifts his hands from his sides, slides his thumbs into the grooves cut into Dean’s hips and pulls.

Dean moans and hunches over, his cock thickening impossibly inside Sam’s mouth. But before Sam can gag, Dean’s pulling out, holding his dick over Sam’s upturned face so that come pumps out over his mouth and chin and eyes and cheeks, thick globs that try to stick but inevitably blend with the warm water and gently wash away, even as Sam licks out to catch them.

 Sam shakes his head a little, as if he's coming out of a daze, and Dean places a hand on the wall, eases down to his knees beside him. The beat of the water against Sam’s neck and shoulders feels somehow softer now as he leans in and holds Dean’s face so he can catch his mouth with his own. Dean murmurs, low and satisfied, and Sam drinks it down, lazily sharing with Dean the taste of his come and slightly worried that he might never be able stand again.

Dean wraps his arms around Sam, pulling him closer and closer still. Standing be damned, Sam never, ever wants to leave this shower anyway. They sit there under the steady fall of water, both sated and soaking and drowsy.

Finally, Dean rouses himself, stands and pulls Sam up with him. He shuts off the water and coaxes Sam out of the stall. Sam sways, tank on empty, as Dean putters, scrabbles for a towel under the cabinet, perfunctorily dries Sam off, then scrubs at his own hair before wrapping the towel around his waist.

“C’mon, man,” he says, and pulls Sam’s arm over his shoulder to guide him into the bedroom.

Sam leans into him, murmurs into Dean’s hair, “I didn’t even get a chance to wash.”

Dean chuckles. It’s an evil chuckle. “Don’t worry.” His voice drops even lower. “I promise you’ll be filthy tomorrow morning once I’m finished with you. Have to clean up all over again anyway.”

Sam hmmms and lets himself tumble onto the judiciously turned-down bed, wet hair cold on his neck, not as tired as he was a few seconds ago. “Fine,” he says, hooking a foot around Dean’s thigh and pulling him down to sprawl across him. He tugs the blankets up to cover them both. “Shower again in the morning.”

“Or,” Dean replies as he nips his way across Sam’s collarbone. “There’s always the Jacuzzi tub down the hall.”


End file.
